Companionable Strikes
by Pingless
Summary: After a month of living together, Sherlock recognizes his attraction to John and tries to deduce a few things about John's sexual preferences. Also, there is now a case (starting with Chapter 4). I am not sure what rating this is, as there are definitely adult themes in this story, however it will not contain anything explicit, so T for now. Sherlock's POV.
1. Chapter 1

The case was over, at least in Sherlock's mind, for about two days now. He was certain that the killer would be found in one of the abandoned flats, and it was no surprise when, after a brief chase, the unfortunate murderer was pinned down and handcuffed by one of the more able police officers. Even Lestrade began celebrating earlier - he had arrived to the scene smelling of lager, with a spring in his step and the weekend on his mind. John was there, too, breathing heavily from the brief scuffle with the killer when he bumped into him while they were sweeping the desolate building. Yes, Sherlock thought, their presence was redundant at best, but it was a better way to spend the evening than to watch John prepare for his date and then leave with a small smile on his lips, only to return in the early hours of the morning.

It had been about a month since Dr. Watson moved in to 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock had been pacing himself. He felt the unmistakable stab of attraction to the doctor during their first public meal, and his mind was made up when he learned that the good doctor did not hesitate to shoot the cabbie when Sherlock's life was in danger. Sherlock's mind quickly tagged John as "safe," and after a couple of weeks "warm," and, after some internal struggle, "exciting." Despite these pleasant revelations, Sherlock chose to proceed with caution, and enjoy, for the time being, only John's friendly companionship. It did not, however, deter him from gently nudging John in the right direction by compromising the doctor's dating life.

And so that evening, when John was putting on his good shoes and chatting absent-mindedly about "Kelly," Sherlock informed him that the police had a strong lead about the whereabouts of their latest suspect, and John stopped, sighed, and cancelled the date with a single text. If Sherlock had allowed himself to make a conjecture on the subject of John's reaction, he might have said that the doctor felt guiltily relieved. It was, however, a guess, and he carefully discarded it. Only three hours later they were standing in front of the handcuffed killer and Sherlock felt a mild twinge of panic at the thought that it was still only 10 pm and it was very possible that "Kelly" liked John enough to allow him come by for a nightcap. Luckily for Sherlock, John looked entirely pleased with how the evening turned out so far, if Sherlock could judge by the way he grinned at the approaching Lestrade.

"Got 'im, boys," Lestrade said, looking at Sherlock and then John, "Thanks for stopping by, even though, I do admit, I did not expect you to come…"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but noticed that Lestrade was already priming himself to inflict a rather painful companionable slap on Sherlock's back. Taking a swift step away, Sherlock avoided Lestrade's assault, leveling him with a restraining look. Lestrade did not take offense, but turned to John and delivered a resounding, profound slap on John's back, making the doctor stumble slightly forward and even cough a bit.

"Blimey, Greg," John quickly regained his balance and turned to the DI with wide eyes, "I think it's time you went back to the pub."

"Sorry, John," Lestrade answered, but the doctor was already smiling with a crinkle in his eye and Sherlock allowed himself a brief smirk, before noticing the way John moved his shoulder, as if he wished for his clothing to rub against his stinging back.

"Right, I think it's time we all headed home," Sherlock said, and left John to say hasty goodbyes while he hailed a cab. As always, he was rather successful, and soon they were riding home in companionable silence.

John was silent in the cab, and Sherlock allowed himself to observe the doctor from the corner of his eye. John was moving slightly, imperceptibly, pushing against the seat as if to entrap the warm residue of Lestrade's hand; Sherlock noticed that, and the absent-minded way John played with the phone in his hands, and the way he finally hummed and turned it on.

"I might as well check if Kelly is still up for a late night cup of coffee," John explained, and in the brief moment when the doctor's eyes were lit up by the screen of his phone, Sherlock saw that John's pupils were dilated.

Kelly was not, in fact, up for a late night cup of coffee. When they made it to the flat, John quickly excused himself and made his way to his bedroom, while Sherlock lay on the couch and pondered the night's events. Granted it had been only a month since he met Dr. Watson, but he was accustomed to learning everything of value about the people who surrounded him in the matter of hours, or, at most, days; John seemed to be set on surprising him, even though the doctor did not do it intentionally. Take, for example, that night's incident with Lestrade: there was a brief moment of physical contact with the doctor and the detective, and as a consequence John's mind reverted to the thoughts of physical pleasure (hence his imperceptible movements in the car, and his attempt to get in touch with Kelly); Sherlock was certain that John was not attracted to Lestrade - there were no accidental touches or lingering looks, and John had made it clear to the whole of Scotland Yard, and to Lestrade personally, that he was not interested in men.

That, of course, left Sherlock with the impossible deduction that John enjoyed pain. And yet, judging by the women John chose for himself, it was also clear that pain had not been introduced into John's sexual life. Again, Sherlock felt that it was hasty to assume that John, who had a rich sexual history, was not aware of his own tastes in the bedroom. And yet, Sherlock's only bid on John's future reciprocation rested on the possibility that when it came to sex, John could have overlooked a few major facts about himself. It was a flimsy hypothesis, but it was one nevertheless, and further experimentation would be needed for it to be proven wrong or true.


	2. Chapter 2

The few hours of sleep Sherlock got that night were spent in a feverish delirium on the couch, where he tossed and turned and sweated through his thin shirt and trousers into the upholstery. The image of John haunted him - at times the doctor took him by the hand and led him somewhere, other times he wiped the sweat off Sherlock's brow with his cool hand, but mostly it was just the thought of John that kept Sherlock bothered, just the mere suggestion of his presence.

Sherlock decided it was enough by five in the morning, so he proceeded to shower and change his clothing, and the cool touch of the brilliant white of his shirt seemed to soothe his mind and give it some structure. By the time he put on his suit jacket he was already thinking of the experiment he had been waiting to conduct, and the preparation of chemical equipment gave him a nice routine to follow; John's appearance in his life also meant that he could get his hands on some medical tools that John sometimes nicked from supply closets, which was a nice addition to his own collection. Sherlock picked up the scalpel he was particularly fond of - it was a little small for his large hands, but, as proud as he was of his pedantic manner of approaching scientific research, he was not a surgeon, and a little imperfection was not at all catastrophic.

Thus he was able to focus on his experiment without the thoughts of John invading his consciousness. His concentration flagged only when his flatmate stirred upstairs at 8:23 am and Sherlock heard the unmistakable creak of the floorboard next to John's bed. It was Saturday, Sherlock remembered, and John would be probably having a lazy shower and then wandering downstairs to have a lengthy breakfast, and then, perhaps, if there were no cases (there were not, at the moment), he would humm and think very carefully about phoning Kelly, which of course would lead to him phoning Kelly, and then John would probably leave with a small smile on his lips and the perfunctory "Might be late, don't wait up." All this, Sherlock's mind supplied, would delay his own exploration of John's strange relationship with pain for at least a day.

"Morning," John said cheerfully, jerking Sherlock from his thoughts to the present, "Jesus, Sherlock, did you sleep at all, or did you spend the whole night doing experiments? When did you start?"

"Just after five," Sherlock answered, turning off his bunsen burner and remaining perfectly still.

"Right, did not think to make some breakfast, hmm? I am starving, I should have never skipped dinner last night."

"You seemed to be in a great hurry to get to your room," Sherlock supplied, watching two crimson spots appear on John's cheeks.

"Yes well, I was knackered, wasn't I - a full day at the surgery, then we spent the whole of evening chasing that bloke...Anyway, I am thinking beans on toast."

Sherlock remained silent, pretending to be concentrating on his experiment, until John looked at him furtively and seemed to be relieved that his flatmate dropped the subject.

"That smell always reminds me of my years at the uni," John said, heating up the beans and smiling to himself. Sherlock watched him carefully - John at the university, that was a curious image, and probably one worth exploring. Sherlock could almost imagine the way his flatmate looked when he first held a scalpel with the intention of dissecting a cadaver; the image made Sherlock reach out and touch his own scalpel with the tips of his fingers.

"Lovely," John murmured to himself, depositing the beans on the buttered toast. Sherlock noticed that there were two plates, and a feeling of warmth filled his chest.

"Maybe this breakfast is a little redundant," John continued louder, "I was thinking maybe I should call up Kelly, apologize for yesterday, and see if she would be up for an early lunch."

"John, I'd like to take a vial of your blood," Sherlock said, deadpan, as John deposited both plates on the table.

"I assume this is for some kind of experiment," John said, pushing the second plate toward Sherlock.

"Correct. Lestrade mentioned a cold case, unfortunately the crime scene is no longer available, there are only black and white photographs of it. I would like to get some of the similar carpeting and stain it with your blood."

"Right, well, this is not the most outrageous favor, coming from you," John smiled, "I'll draw some blood after breakfast."

"I would like to draw it myself."

"And why is that?"

"Well," Sherlock shrugged mildly, "I'd like to learn the procedure. Might come in handy."

"I am not sure how skilled you are when it comes to handling a syringe," John started carefully, "Although I can…"

"No syringe will be necessary. I am perfectly happy to use the finger stick method."

"And I assume you will be using that," John nodded toward the scalpel in Sherlock's hand.

"Precisely, Dr. Watson."

After breakfast John made Sherlock wear latex gloves, which went counter to Sherlock's plans, but the doctor was adamant about proper medical procedure and Sherlock had no choice but to yield. They sat at the table, and both stared at John's hand while the doctor spoke.

"There is really nothing to it," John said, "I usually tell my patients to massage their fingers a little bit, so that there is more blood. If they are nervous I hide the lancet in my palm, distract them, and prick them quickly while they are not looking. I think it's more painful to actually collect the blood, due to all that...squeezing."

"I am certain we won't need any distractions," Sherlock said with a smirk and John giggled, "May I proceed?"

"Of course, be my guest," John smiled at him reassuringly.

The doctor's hand was warm - Sherlock felt it through his glove - and his finger looked inflamed against the otherwise pale skin of his palm. Sherlock carefully positioned the scalpel and, with another look at John's face, quickly pricked his skin and watched John as a small droplet of blood formed on the tip of his finger.

"Well, now grab that capillary tube and start collecting," John said, "If the flow is weak you can stroke the finger from bottom to top, that usually does the trick."

Collecting a vial of John's blood was not a challenge, however Sherlock did not see anything that might have suggested the doctor's pleasure at the slight pain he was experiencing. If anything, John looked mildly bored as he stole furtive glances at his wrist watch. When they were done, John jokingly gave Sherlock a high mark in blood drawing and made the dreaded call to Kelly; they were to meet in an hour, and John adjourned upstairs for some grooming.

Perhaps the pain was too mild, Sherlock thought as he cleaned up and stored the vial of John's blood in the refrigerator. Children might cry during the procedure, but John had a higher tolerance for pain; something more drastic was needed, and as John prepared himself for his date, Sherlock grew nervous and exasperated. He considered coming out with it - just barricading the door and forcing John to sit and listen to him while he tried various things, but that would be...counterproductive. He was disinfecting the scalpel when the doctor came downstairs and peeked into the kitchen.

"Cleaning up after an experiment? Sherlock, you are not yourself today," John smiled as his eyes fell on the way Sherlock was holding the scalpel, "This is too small for you, but I bet if you tried holding it like this…"

He walked toward Sherlock, and all of the sudden Sherlock's mind went into overdrive: here was John, and in five minutes he would be somewhere else, and it was up to Sherlock to prevent it.

Holding his breath and making sure he would not hurt the doctor too much, Sherlock let the scalpel slip from his fingers slightly before cutting the doctor's extended arm.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock!" John shouted jerking away from the blade in the detective's hand, but the damage was done. The doctor quickly unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and jerked the sleeve higher, revealing a wound stretching about two and a half inches; it did not look particularly deep (Sherlock knew it was not) and as the two men stared, the blood seeped through and started dripping on the table.

"Right," John muttered, his initial shock dissipating quickly, "I don't think I need stitches, from the looks of it."

The doctor sighed and went about cleaning the wound and applying the bandage while Sherlock watched him closely. When he saw that it was a little difficult for John to apply the bandage he tried to reach out and help, but John stopped him immediately.

"No offense, but I am uncomfortable with you touching me at the moment," the doctor said and Sherlock acquiesced and took a step back.

"I assume this was for an experiment," John stated, still working on the bandage.

Sherlock swallowed thickly before answering, "Correct."

"Are you able to observe the results without closer examination?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded.

"Good," John finished and inspected his shirt – apart from the tear in the fabric where Sherlock cut him, it had several drops of blood on it, "Well, the shirt's ruined. I need to change it before I meet Kelly."

John had gone upstairs to change, and Sherlock leaned against the counter, letting out a controlled breath. It was painfully obvious that he was wrong about something, at least, and further missteps would probably lead to drastic consequences. As it was, he was unsure about John's further reaction to this particular incident.

"Sherlock," John interrupted him, wearing a new shirt and looking into his eyes, "Please don't experiment on me without my consent."

Then he was gone – tugging on his jacket while trying to type a message to Kelly – "Going to be a few minutes late, sorry" – or something of the sort. The door was closed carefully, almost deliberately so, and Sherlock relaxed a little.

His mind recorded everything to a minute detail. The whole experience was now bearing heavily on his thoughts, demanding attention and careful dissection. First, Sherlock thought, it was obvious that John did experience pain – judging by his initial reaction and short outburst. Second, that pain was not welcome, and did not produce the effect Sherlock desired. Third, John did not appreciate Sherlock's initiative and stated explicitly that he would not tolerate it in the future.

It was logical to cease and desist from further experimentation and file the incident with Lestrade as an extraordinary occurrence that did not fit into a pattern. It would not be the first time that Sherlock did this – he was fully aware of the fact that sometimes people reacted in inexplicable ways – at least inexplicable to him – and that, while troubling, these reactions were essentially extraneous to their general behavior. With John, however, this was more troubling than usual, for Sherlock was more than keen to study his blogger.

It was also troublesome, Sherlock thought, because logically he now had to depart from the premise that pain excited John, and consider that, perhaps, it was Lestrade who was able to produce this reaction in his flatmate. This painful thought had been in the back of his mind since the incident, Sherlock admitted, lying down on the sofa and closing his eyes. Fortunately, this was also the only time that he noticed something of the sort between John and Lestrade, and really, he had been watching John very closely and it was improbable that he had missed something.

Still, he thought, drifting into the part of his palace that he dedicated to John, _once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. _

John returned in the early hours of Sunday, and Sherlock was still on the sofa, lounging in the same position. The doctor tried and failed to be discreet, but the detective did not open his eyes and breathed slowly so as not to arise suspicion. It was easy to follow John's movement even with his eyes closed – the good doctor stopped briefly at the entrance, surveying the situation; he then deposited his heavy boots by the door and carefully walked over to the sofa. Nothing happened for the next ten seconds or so, and Sherlock imagined that John was looking over him, perhaps trying to deduce whether the detective was really asleep. After this short pause Sherlock heard a quiet exhale, and felt the doctor carefully turn over his right arm, exposing the milky white flesh. He was checking for nicotine patches, Sherlock thought, as John proceeded to his left arm, which was draped over the detective's stomach.

It was difficult for Sherlock to maintain his even breathing pattern as John carefully looked him over. The touch of the doctor's warm hands was almost intimate, and Sherlock thought that he almost felt John's breath on his neck. It was over quickly; John was obviously satisfied that Sherlock did not use any stimulants the night before. There was a quiet rustle and Sherlock felt the weight of a blanket on him, and it was only then that he realized that he was actually quite cold.

John slept late that morning, and by the time he came downstairs it was already 11, and Mrs. Hudson had already served them breakfast. It seemed that he had forgotten about the scalpel incident, although, as Sherlock noted, the bandage on his arm looked fresh.

"Morning," John flashed him a smile before stalking over to the kitchen, "This smells great, I presume we have Mrs. Hudson to thank for this?"

"She prepared everything an hour ago, it might be cold," Sherlock noticed from the couch, where he was browsing their website on John's laptop.

"Did you eat?"

"No," Sherlock answered, but suppressed the "obviously" that almost rolled off his tongue.

"Well then, do you need a formal invitation?"

Sherlock raised his head to examine John – the friendly banter was there, and the doctor's face was as open as ever. John looked like someone who would really appreciate the company of his roommate during breakfast, even if it meant spending time with Sherlock in a room full of knives.

John must have noticed Sherlock's hesitation and sighed, looking over his bandage briefly.

"Look, about yesterday. I might have acted…cold, but I really don't like knives. Blades. Prickly things. I think it started when one of my classmates terrorized me with his Swiss knife back when I was seven."

"What about surgery?"

"Well, it's different there. It's all about learning how to control the tools you have. Same with guns – I might not like when someone pulls a gun on me, but I feel safe when I have my pistol on me."

"For someone who likes danger so much, you are very fond of safety."

"You can call it the 'John Dialectic,'" the doctor winked, "In all seriousness, every time I seek danger, I make a rational choice. I chose to join the army, and I chose to follow you to crime scenes. I did not choose, however, to get shot, or to…"

"…or to have your roommate cut you for an experiment," Sherlock finished, wincing.

"Precisely."

"May I ask you a question, John?"

"Of course."

"Was it the fact that I hurt you, or was it the fact that I used a scalpel in particular that upset you? Because you have given me evidence for both of these cases."

"Does it…does it make a difference?" John looked genuinely puzzled, "Should we even differentiate between the two in this situation?"

"It's quite important to me that we do not conflate these two facts."

"In that case…I have to say, a little bit from column A, a little bit from column B," John answered, looking uncertain.

"Very well," Sherlock said, changing his tone, "Should we eat?"

The day went by uneventfully, if one ignored the gathering storm clouds outside. Sherlock enjoyed falling back into the familiar routine with John – bickering about the mess in the kitchen and watching some telly. By late afternoon it had gotten dark and started raining, and Mrs. Hudson came by to chat.

"They said on the telly that half of London could lose electricity over this," she said, nodding at the intensifying rain outside, "I thought you boys needed a couple of candles, I didn't think you had any. These are quite old, but I bet they'll do just fine."

The candles were a nice gesture, although John did not think they would need them; still, in a half an hour the building across the street went dark, and the doctor cursed mildly under his breath.

"I guess a peaceful Sunday is too much to asked for," John grumbled, trying to focus on his book.

"You can still read if we lose electricity," Sherlock answered from the sofa, "I think you are just too comfortable and crave something to complain about."

"Trust me, Sherlock, once you've been in the army…you are never comfortable enough. You can sit on enormous bed swaddled in blankets with a cup of tea in your hand and still complain that the mattress is a little too firm. One of my father's friends, who had been in the army, would only eat sausage and eggs in the morning since his retirement because he was so tired of army breakfasts that…"

"Wrong," Sherlock sighed, "Despite your professed love for comfort, you crave inconvenience. You wouldn't be here if it were otherwise. Have you ever thought that your father's friend simply loved sausage and eggs?"

"I..," John began.

"…No, you haven't! You have taken his word without any second thoughts. And why would you do that, John? Perhaps because analyzing things would lead to unfortunate conclusions."

"What, um..," John looked confused by Sherlock's outburst, "Are we still talking about sausage and eggs?"

"We are talking about you avoiding self-analysis."

"Self-analysis?" John frowned, "Are you…are you talking about our conversation in the morning? The scalpel thing?"

"Obviously."

"I don't quite see how it fits."

"And yet you made the connection between our current conversation and the one we had in the morning," Sherlock smiled bitterly, "But for the sake of brevity, let me walk you through this particular situation. I asked you whether you were mad about me using the scalpel during the experiment, or me doing the experiment altogether. I asked this because – evidently – I was unsure whether the experiment would have been welcome under different circumstances. Which means I was implying that…"

"…you were implying that I would have been all right with you…what? Choking me? Lashing me? Jesus, Sherlock."

"I have reason to think that you would be more than 'all right' with it," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Let me tell you this," John narrowed his eyes, his voice becoming harsh, "I have forgiven your previous liberties because it's only been a month, we are still getting to know each other, and I understand that you are a unique bloke. It is not all right, however, to meddle in my intimate affairs, and it is certainly not all right to experiment on me to see my reaction. If you will continue in this fashion…"

John stopped when the lights in the whole room suddenly went out and immersed them in murky darkness. Sherlock was now a sharp outline against the window, and John remembered that it was still raining outside.

"Right," he said, sighing tiredly, "I think the candles are in the kitchen."

It seemed like his rage left him completely as he shuffled to the kitchen. Sherlock watched his shoulders droop a little and wondered if he had pushed too far; John was lighting the candles now, and the dancing flames bathed the doctor in warm light. Sherlock felt drawn to that scene from his dark corner and as he neared his flatmate John began talking, his voice softer.

"You can't assume things about people and then proceed to act on them, Sherlock," he said, handing him the candle.

Sherlock's eyes were on John as he moved closer, trying to fit into the small sphere of light and warmness around the doctor; he reached for the candle without looking and bumped John's hand accidentally, the hot wax sloshing and dripping on John's hand, running down and solidifying quickly.

"Ah," John gasped, pausing briefly before rushing to get the wax off his hand. He stopped when he realized that Sherlock was watching him intently, his lips parted a little.

"What?" John asked, staring at Sherlock, who was looking back at John's dilated pupils.


	4. Chapter 4

John shuddered, his breathing labored and lips parted. It seemed like he was fighting to keep his eyes open; Sherlock stayed close in his personal space, carefully noting his reaction. The skin on John's hand was reddened, and a fine film of perspiration appeared on his forehead.

"This is not…" John swallowed before proceeding, "This can be explained."

"Of course," Sherlock said, his voice husky, "It is dark, so your pupils are dilated. We've just had an argument, and you could be wound up from that. Since it is raining heavily, our windows are closed and it is quite warm here, which explains the perspiration on your forehead."

"Perspiration?" John licked his lip and Sherlock reached out and dragged his hand through the dampness on John's forehead. The doctor's skin was feverish, and his eyes turned glassy.

"Yes," Sherlock said, smoothing John's hair back with his now damp hand, "Everything that is happening to you has a perfectly normal explanation."

"Right," John agreed, closing his eyes while Sherlock ran his hand through his hair.

"Then again," Sherlock continued, his hand coming to rest on the back of John's head, "Combined with some other data I have collected, all of this might lead to an entirely different conclusion."

Sherlock's fingers in John's hair gripped tighter, and John opened his eyes in shock, staring at the detective.

"Sherlock…" John started, but the chime of Sherlock's mobile interrupted him. Both men turned to look at the phone, its screen lit up and illuminating the dust in the air with blue light.

"Check your messages, Sherlock," John said, his voice steady. When Sherlock turned back to look at the doctor, he noted John's measured breathing, and his serious gaze.

"It could wait," Sherlock answered, ready to resume their previous conversation.

"Could be Lestrade," John said, moving away from Sherlock and turning to the sink to run cold water over his hand.

"Right," Sherlock nodded, snapping back to reality. Taking a few measured breaths, he tried to calm down as he walked to the table and picked up his phone. It was, indeed, Lestrade, and it seemed that they were needed urgently.

"We have a case," Sherlock said, "It appears there is a serial killer on the loose."

Which was an overstatement of the century, Sherlock thought as he circled the body. Male, thirty-something, lean, dressed simply but tastefully. He was well connected and his job was heavily dependent on social networking – his mobile chimed every two minutes or so in his pocket as Sherlock examined him. Glasses with slight frames, a laptop in his backpack (practical, takes trips often), a smart haircut. A journalist. Though, with serial killers, one's occupation was hardly important, as long as it did not involve prostitution.

"Why are you so sure it is a serial killer?" Sherlock asked, and Lestrade took a step forward, gesturing toward the victim's neck.

"Well, we had, uh…one more murder like this last month."

Right. The victim died from a blunt trauma to the back of the head, however after the death the victim's throat was slit and his tongue was pulled out through the wound, forming the so-called...

"Colombian necktie," Anderson supplied smugly, "Isn't it obvious? Drug trafficking."

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock turned back to the body, "Tell me about the other murder."

"Similar," Lestrade answered, "A young professional, male, slight build. Blunt blow to the head, throat slit and tongue pulled out after death."

"So the killer has a type," Sherlock pursed his lips, "Or he is trying really hard to have a type. Any cold cases like this?"

"Not that I know of," Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock, too, could not remember anything similar in the recent past.

Sherlock reached into the victim's pocket, reading through the messages on his mobile.

"Anything important?" Lestrade asked, trying to look over his shoulder.

"Mostly job-related, he is a journalist," Sherlock answered, "We will need to check the records to see if there are any cases like this. Not just London. Not just in the past year."

"This could take a long time," Lestrade answered, unsure.

"John will do it," Sherlock said without turning away from the victim's mobile, "Just grant him temporary access."

Lestrade turned to look at John, who smiled and nodded.

"I just have to go back to work tomorrow at eight," he said, "But I am free for the rest of the night."

"Where are _you_ going?" Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock.

"Oh, I am coming with you, of course," the detective turned to look at the DI and John, "I'll need to know everything you managed to gather about last month's case."

It appeared that the first murder was the same – the victim was killed with a blunt object and his body was discarded in an abandoned warehouse. Nothing seemed to be missing from his person, and, as Sherlock found out, there was no evidence of sexual assault in both cases.

"Look there," Sherlock said, pointing to one of the photographs from the first murder scene, "His identification card. _The London Gazette_? He was a journalist as well."

"Could it be that they were working on the same story?"

"Let's see," Sherlock said, taking a seat on the couch and grabbing the laptop, "Judging by his mobile messages, our most recent victim is a foreign correspondent. What was the name of the first victim?"

"Jonathan Wood," Lestrade answered, checking the file.

"All right," Sherlock quickly typed the information into the search website, "It appears that Jonathan Wood…had a gardening column in _The London Gazette_."

John snickered from his place at Lestrade's table, which was currently littered with old case files. He looked tired, and Sherlock noted that it was already past midnight.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt you," John said and rubbed his eyes, "Carry on, gentlemen."

"Anything on your end?" Lestrade asked.

"No, nothing like this," John sighed, and Sherlock noticed that he was idly playing with a ruler he had found on Lestrade's desk, "Although, I don't know, maybe my judgment is a little off. Here, take a look at this."

Both Lestrade and Sherlock came over to John's side, and Sherlock leaned in so he could see the case John had pulled up on the computer screen.

"This is, uh, from 2007," John said, but Sherlock had already scanned the most important details about the case and decided to concentrate on the doctor instead. The ruler in John's hand was like a splinter in his mind, bothering him, and he knew that he had noticed something important about it previously, but filed it away for future review.

John was describing the case to Lestrade, and as he did so, he rested his cheek on his fist, the ruler pressing comfortably on the flat of his neck. Sherlock examined it carefully, and when he noticed that the skin there was inflamed, he felt a shiver go through his body. John had been worrying the skin on his neck this whole time, subconsciously, perhaps to deliver small doses of pain in order to stay awake.

"…I know it's a woman, but I think the fact that he throat was slit…" John was saying, and Sherlock peeled his eyes way from the doctor's inflamed skin.

"Not a relevant case," Sherlock interrupted John mid-sentence, "The edges of the slit are not as neat, which means it was performed with a dull blade. The murderer was unprepared, this is highly unlikely to be a serial killer, I am guessing it was a crime of passion."

"Right," John sighed, "I'll keep looking then."

"So I guess it doesn't matter that they were journalists," Lestrade was saying as they went back to the couch. Sherlock's mind, however, was centered on John, who was currently rubbing his neck.


	5. Chapter 5

They could not find any cold cases that were similar, and by two in the morning they were sitting in the cab and riding toward Baker Street. John was quiet and lost in thought, while Sherlock methodically catalogued all the facts they uncovered that night.

"You don't think it's a serial killer," John said, looking out the cab's window.

"No," Sherlock answered, giving his flatmate a sideways glance.

"Why?" John asked and met Sherlock gaze.

"It's quite basic, really," Sherlock turned to look forward, concentrating on his deductions, "Serial killers usually target people who are vulnerable – people who are young, alone, inebriated, addicted, homeless, or engaged in prostitution. It is true that our victims are both slim, however they are still two young able-bodied men in their 30s with successful careers. Moreover, they are journalists, and that gives one a certain ability to read people, and perhaps even their intentions. I do not think that they would be easily deceived, and since there are no signs of physical struggle, they were not overpowered."

"Furthermore, think about the way these murders were conducted. Blunt trauma to the head – that's a possibility for a serial murderer, but why the postmortem Colombian neckties? If a serial killer is interested in anatomy, why didn't he or she touch other parts of the victim's body? There was no sexual contact. The victims were not even undressed. Now, if you were a lonely murderer, and if you at last succeeded in luring your victim into your trap, why wouldn't you take your time and experiment? Why perform the same thing two times, and then quickly discard the body? It's just…uninspired."

The cabbie gave them a look, and John chuckled.

"Is there anything else?" John asked.

"Yes, of course. We were unable to uncover any other similar murders, not even attempts. Are we to assume that the supposed serial killer perfected his technique without any trial runs? Highly unlikely."

"All right, so if any of that is true…" John began and Sherlock gave him a look, "Sorry, those _are_ clever deductions, but I can't help but doubt a few of them. 'Young, able-bodied men in their 30s' can be forced to do one's bidding if one simply points a gun at them. And some people just like the thrill of the chase – not the actual gory aftermath, when it comes to murders. Maybe he just loved the process of hunting them down, and was not particularly interested in mutilating their bodies. And, as far as I understand, serial killers are usually methodical and highly intelligent, so perhaps this particular one was able to carry out his plan perfectly on his first attempt."

Sherlock was silent and John waited a few seconds before proceeding.

"No input?"

"White, male, 30s, professional, journalist," Sherlock said, "Don't you think that type is a little too specific, especially for a non-sexual crime?"

"Big city, lots of journalists, could be a coincidence," John shrugged and Sherlock had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

"You are welcome to follow that line of thought," Sherlock said instead.

"I'd like to follow anything that might lead to us catching the murderer."

"Or murderers," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Right," John sighed, "So, what's our next step?"

"Interview the families," Sherlock answered, "Maybe there is a connection between those two."

"Very well," John nodded, "But first I have to go to work."

* * *

At the flat, John quickly ascended the stairs to catch a few hours of sleep before he was due at the surgery. The lights had been fixed during their absence, but Sherlock opted to lie on the couch in the dark, carefully going over the nights' events. The murders were curious, it was true, and they were obviously connected. It did seem, however, that they were still missing a few key points before Sherlock could proceed to the next stage of the investigation; he hated the fact that he had to wait until the next day to interview the families.

That was the state of the case. Sherlock hesitated before proceeding onto his thoughts about John. After the failed experiment with pricks and blades, the incident with the candle, and then with the ruler, came as an unexpected avalanche of information. The candle proved that John had a positive reaction to certain painful stimuli; the ruler showed Sherlock that John also used pain as a coping mechanism – with stress, in that particular case. It seemed, then, that pain was more or a less an integral part of John's life, even if this fact was unknown to John himself. There were no visible burns or scars on John's body (or the parts of it Sherlock had seen before); none of his girlfriends seemed capable to satisfy John by inflicting pain. If Sherlock was correct in his deductions, he was the only person conscious of John's preferences. This fact made Sherlock heady.

There was also the question of Sherlock himself. It had been a while since Sherlock even thought of himself as of a sexual creature – the thought crossed his mind when he was 16, and he brushed it away as insignificant. He habitually purged sexual knowledge, not because he was disgusted, but because it was useless to him; still, it managed to find its way into his head from the snippets of extraneous information he received every day – Molly's flirting, Lestrade's marital problems, the arrangement between Anderson and Donovan, magazine headlines, radio and TV programmes, even Mrs. Hudson's stories about the "married ones." This information usually lay about in his mind palace until the next purge – unorganized, unneeded, inconsequential. Now, however, he felt that he needed to start organizing it, and, perhaps, even seeking new, more reliable sources.

Sherlock sighed, moving his hand down his body and resting it on his stomach. Whatever switch in his head John managed to flip, it was working. Sherlock felt his body and his mind adjusting to John's presence, and beginning to accommodate John's needs. The fact that Sherlock never had a sustained sexual relationship also meant that Sherlock did not have any particular preferences. He viewed his current sexual tabula rasa as a possibility rather than a hindrance; from very early age Sherlock fought to maintain flexibility when it came to his, to remain a highly reconfigurable individual. There were a few constants in his life – the work, the mind palace, the constant state of high alertness, as well as the more base needs of food and sleep, the rest, however, was up to him, and he could manipulate his body and mind to accommodate his wishes. At the moment, it seemed, the wish to become a suitable partner for John was as strong as his need to occupy himself with cases and puzzles.

* * *

Jonathan Wood's widow seemed like she had been crying nonstop since she learned of her husband's death the previous week. The Woods lived in a comfortable house in the suburbs and possessed a charming garden; she was a botanist, he was a journalist with a knack for gardening, and, judging by the calendar on the refrigerator with small inconspicuous marks on certain dates, they were trying to conceive.

"No, Jonathan didn't have any enemies," Mrs. Wood said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, "I can't even think of anyone who could have done that."

"What about his work? Was he working on anything dangerous? Any collaborations with other journalists?" Sherlock said, regretting the fact that he could not wait until the end of John's shift to send him here instead of going himself.

"No," she sighed, hiccupping a little, "For the past week he had been working on the article called _When Autumn's Harvest Doesn't Mean the End of Summer Garden_. You see, the weather's been nice, and we decided it wasn't time to…"

"How about side projects?"

"Side projects?" She looked at him quizzically before realization dawned on her face, "No, Mr. Holmes, we do not have a marijuana garden tucked away in our shed. With London's climate? We would have lost all our money on electricity…"

"Right, I am sorry," Sherlock got up and extended his arm to her, which she took weakly, "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Wood, and please accept my condolences."

He was out of the house and walking toward the train in a minute, silently berating himself on even wasting his time on the personal interview. Still, he couldn't quite give up this line of investigation, and that meant that he had to visit the house of Neville Green, who happened to be the second victim.

John joined him at the station, and Sherlock was glad to slide into the privacy of a cab with his blogger.

"Did you manage to find out anything from Wood's widow?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock said, "Nothing important. I don't think Jonathan Wood was involved in anything that did not involve composting."

John tsked in disapproval, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. Sherlock gave his rare half smile and turned to look out the window. It looked like John was very tired, and, perhaps, decided to delay the inevitable confrontation about Sherlock's behavior on the night of the blackout.

Neville Green lived in a small flat with his girlfriend, Natalie, who worked in the city. It seemed that the flat was there just so that they wouldn't have to sleep on the street, since it was largely barren and undecorated, even though the couple moved in four years before.

"Neville traveled a lot," his girlfriend answered John's unspoken question when she saw him eyeing their dull décor, "And I work 70 hours a week. This is more of a launch pad than a flat, I admit."

"It looks very efficient," John noted politely.

"You are here to ask whether Neville had any enemies," Natalie turned to Sherlock, "I can't give you a clear answer, but I suspect he had."

"Why are you so unsure?" Sherlock asked.

"Neville took his investigative work very seriously, and we had an understanding that he was not going to share everything about his career."

"Was Neville working on any big projects recently?"

"I think so, yes, but I can't be sure. He was definitely more anxious recently. I think…if you need more information, you would have to get his laptop. It's, ah, I am pretty sure that all the information on it is encrypted, however, and I don't know how to get to it. But if I were investigating this murder, and if I had any reason to believe that Neville's job was a part of it, I would get that information. Incidentally, wasn't it…a serial killer? I heard that Neville was not the first."

"He wasn't," John answered, "Another man was killed the week before Neville's murder."

"Another journalist," Sherlock corrected and Natalie's eyes widened.

"Do you think…do you think it was because of their work?" she asked.

"We are not sure at this point, but it seems unlikely," John said, "They didn't seem to know each other, and they worked in completely different fields."

Sherlock was not quite happy with that answer, but John's assessment was not incorrect – there were no visible connections between Jonathan Wood and Neville Green. This interview, on the other hand, was not completely useless, and it uncovered their next step. Sherlock left John to make a polite exit (even though it seemed that Natalie did not care for John's polite demeanor) while he hailed a cab.

"Are we to simply forget about Jonathan Wood's murder and investigate Neville Green as if he were the only victim?" John grumbled once they were in the car, rubbing his neck.

"Going for that laptop is the most logical next step," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Right," John sighed, "You know, you are…a bit too overbearing sometimes."

"John, I advise you to save this conversation for later. It is not far to Scotland Yard."

"I rest my case," John whispered on the exhale.

Natalie was right – all the data on Green's computer had been encrypted, and the Scotland Yard specialists were unable to break through the extensive security measures.

"Chances are, we are going to prick and prod it until some mechanism wipes all the information away as a precaution against security breach," one of the specialists said, "I suppose we are lucky if we can get through, but that would take time. Better worry about who was able to set up such an impressive security system."

"I know someone who will be able to decrypt this," Sherlock said offhandedly, "But I can't bring him here. We need to take this laptop off the premises."

Lestrade was not happy about this, but the security specialists laughed.

"I severely doubt that Mr. Holmes knows such an individual. I would let him take the thing, in his hands it won't be more informative than an old brick."

And so they left with the laptop, and John gave Sherlock a curious look as they were exiting the building.

"You know a cyber security specialist?"

"I do."

"And we are going to see him right now?"

"We are," Sherlock answered, "If his mother lets us."


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello everyone, thank you very much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following! I appreciate your feedback very much, and it gives me a huge motivation to write and post._

* * *

"It is the likes of you that corrupted him," the mother way saying, "There is no way in hell I am giving you his address."

It seemed that James, who happened to be Sherlock's cyber security specialist, had turned 18 several months ago and left his parents' home without looking back. Trying to avoid his mother's wrath, John really was not surprised.

In the end it was James's younger sister that gave them his address – she had slipped out of the house using the backdoor and deposited a small scrap of paper into Sherlock's pocket, smiling apologetically.

"Say hello to him, all right?" she said, "And tell him to find a bigger place, I am moving in as soon as I am legal."

It was easier said than done, John thought, as he looked at the dingy building that housed the young man. He felt a pang of worry for the lad, but it was quickly put out by Sherlock.

"James is where he wants to be," the detective simply said, diving into the building without a worry in his head.

The hallway leading to James's flat was dim and smelled a little sour, and John could not help but worry when they knocked on James's door and it was opened by a skinny teenager who looked no more than 16.

"Who's the old man?" James asked Sherlock, and John pursed his lips briefly.

"I am his colleague…" John was starting to say.

"He is my partner," Sherlock cut him off, "James, meet Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, this is James."

"All right," James smirked and stepped aside to let them through. Once they were inside, he turned to Sherlock with a wide grin.

"Partner, huh," James said and waggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly, "I know how _that_ works."

"We are not…" John interjected, "Sherlock and I are not a couple, we just work and…erm…live together. I am straight."

"Well, thank goodness that cleared up, because I was going to chase you away with some holy water," James answered sarcastically and Sherlock rolled his eyes at John.

"How about you, James," Sherlock said, giving John a pointed look, "How's dating since you moved out? I imagine you are not scared about your parents finding out about your boyfriends anymore."

"Bit of a dry spell lately, but there is a bloke I am thinking about asking out," James gave Sherlock a genuine smile.

John blushed furiously and looked down at his shoes, "I am sorry, I didn't mean to insult you, James."

"You didn't insult me mate, I am tougher than that," James gave John an open smile and turned to Sherlock, "Well, now that we found who is not shagging whom, maybe you should come out an say why you came here in the first place."

"I need you to get into this laptop," Sherlock said, taking a seat on James's old sofa and putting the laptop on the shabby coffee table, "It belonged to a murdered journalist, and I suspect it contains important information that might lead to us catching the perpetrator."

"Hmm," James hummed as he turned the laptop on and waited for it to load, "What was the name of this journalist again?"

"Neville Green."

"Well, you should have started with that," James laughed and Sherlock exchanged a look with John.

"Do you know him?" the doctor asked.

"Him, his girlfriend, his bloody mum. Neville Green had been trying to get in touch with our group for a while, I think he was trying to write a series of articles and then get a book deal."

"Your group?" John asked, a little confused.

"James is a hacker, of course," Sherlock said.

"I am more of a prankster," James corrected, "We don't steal money from banks, it's more of ah…having fun. Taking down a small government's website, messing with religious fanatics…taking the piss, really."

"So…does this still mean that you can get the information off this laptop?" John asked.

"Yes, but not because of my technological skills. Neville received the same instructions as I did when I was taught how to protect myself. I just need some time to figure out some of his passwords, and then we'll be in."

"How long do you think that will take?"

"No more than two days," James shrugged, "And I am only saying this because I also want to check his presence on the social networks and ask around about his activities. You wouldn't believe how much information you can get just by doing a bit of digging. By the end of it you'll have whatever he has on this laptop, his email account, his profile page…"

"Very well. I am willing to pay for your work, of course," Sherlock said, "Do you charge your usual fee, or have you raised your prices?"

"No fee," James shook his head, "It's the least I can do for all you've done for me, Sherlock. Besides, I've been thinking about living more in the real world. Got a job at a shop."

"As you wish," Sherlock nodded taking a step toward the front door, "Send word to me as soon as you are finished, haste is of utmost importance in this case."

"Of course," James and followed him, with John a step behind. Sherlock left with a quick goodbye, but John lingered a little and James turned to look at him with a knowing smile.

"I wanted to apologize again," John started, but James held up his hand.

"I wasn't offended, really," James said, "I know you are not coming from a bad place."

"Thank you," John smiled, moving to exit.

"But if I were you, mate, I'd scale back on the 'I am straight' thing," James called after him, "The doctor doth protest too much, methinks."

* * *

In the cab, John could not relax and Sherlock waited patiently for him to finally ask the question. The doctor tried to establish eye contact a few times, but after that failed he let out a resigned sigh.

"All right, I'll bite," John said, "How do you know James?"

"That wasn't too hard, was it?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John before continuing, "When James was 16 his mother caught him kissing a boy from his class. She proceeded to drive him out of the house, and he ended up living on the streets for the next month. That's when he met a couple of people from the homeless network, and they taught him a few survival tactics, while he gave them a few pointers about stealing from ATM machines. He was recommended to me by someone from the homeless network due to his skills, and I employed his services for a few cases. When I learned his story I contacted Lestrade, and he made sure to pay a visit to his mother. She claimed that he ran away and she was not at fault, but Lestrade can be…convincing, in certain cases. Returning him home was not an ideal solution, but he was young, and it was surely better than living on the streets."

"It was good of you to do that," John said thoughtfully.

"Oh, so do I get Dr. Watson's stamp of approval?"

"It's not like you to care about what other people think," John answered with a smile.

"_Other people_, yes," Sherlock answered.

John gave him a curious look and Sherlock returned it, trying to prolong the moment. He was acutely aware of his hand on the seat between them, and it tingled with want to touch the good doctor.

"We are here," the cabbie said and the car stopped smoothly. John peeled his eyes away from Sherlock's to look out the window, frowning when he realized they were not at Baker Street.

"What's this? Do we have other leads to follow?"

"No, it's a just a nice spot to have dinner," Sherlock said, paying the cabbie and getting out.

* * *

John did not say anything when the waiter deposited a candle on their table, and Sherlock could not help but tease him a little.

"It seems that James has had a positive influence on you," the detective said and John gave him a resigned smile.

"Everyone who sees us thinks we are a couple anyway, candle or not. And I have to admit," John leaned in closer to Sherlock, speaking conspiratorially, "It's a bit flattering, knowing they assume I could hold your interest."

Sherlock almost did a double take at the compliment, but checked himself quickly.

"You are more than capable to hold my interest," Sherlock muttered, adjusting the collar of his shirt with one hand and fiddling with the napkin with the other.

"What's this?" John asked, and Sherlock raised his head to look at the waiter who materialized at their table, holding a bottle of wine.

"Mr. Holmes always gets a complimentary bottle of our finest wine," the waiter said, smiling politely at John.

"We don't need this today, thank you," Sherlock started to wave the waiter away, but John stopped him.

"Bit rude to pass on such an offer," the doctor said, "Thank you."

"I hadn't realized we were drinking today, in the middle of a case," Sherlock retorted as the waiter finished pouring the wine and left with a curt nod.

"I am, not sure about you," John said, "But I do admit, today it is more medicinal rather than celebratory."

"Of course," Sherlock nodded, "You usually have trouble falling asleep when you are exhausted and excited, alcohol should help with that."

"Bull's eye," John nodded, taking a sip from his glass, "Now this is starting to look like a proper date."

* * *

Even though he did not have much to drink that evening, John was a little unsteady on his feet after he slowly exited the cab. The detective was already by his side, and when the doctor swayed a little, Sherlock placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"It's just that we've had a busy couple of days," John sighed, "And I didn't sleep much last night."

"I know," Sherlock said, keeping his hand on John's shoulder and squeezing it lightly, "I was there."

"Right," John sighed again and moved toward the front door, with Sherlock by his side, his hand still on the doctor's shoulder.

It was easy for Sherlock to adjust his body language – he had learned a thing or two about acting for cases, and responding to other people was easy enough. With John, however, Sherlock felt natural, even though these feelings were not something he had experienced before; he liked being close to the doctor, he liked positioning his body so as to both dominate and reassure him, and he liked the fact that he could send a nonverbal message and receive a response, however repressed or vague.

John was at the door, searching his pockets for keys, and Sherlock was observing him. He could feel the shape of John's shoulder beneath the fabric, the way it moved, and he could see John's quiet exasperation. Sherlock did not drink that night, but the smell of alcohol on John's breath was enough to cloud his mind a little. His eyes flicked over John's well-shaped ear and down his neck, and he felt a jolt of excitement when he saw that the doctor's skin was still inflamed from the night in Lestrade's office. John must have continued worrying this spot during his shift at the clinic, as it was still bright red. Sherlock dragged his hand slowly up John's shoulder and peeled away the collar of his shirt, giving himself a better view.

"There they are," John muttered, fishing the keys from one of the pockets, unaware of Sherlock's intense gaze.

Sherlock reached out tentatively and touched John's skin, his cool fingers soothing the inflammation. John shuddered lightly and turned his head halfway, freezing in his spot.

"I noticed that this morning," John said, a little embarrassed, "Kelly must have been a little too excited the last time I saw her."

"That's not Kelly's doing," Sherlock answered, "But it is interesting that you connect it to the feeling of sexual pleasure."

John said nothing to that and went back to unlocking the door, and Sherlock's hand came to rest on the doctor's neck, one of his fingers rubbing John's welt a little. Once the door gave in and they stepped inside into the murky hallway, Sherlock's hand fell away and John climbed the stairs tiredly, with the detective following closely behind.

"I need to sleep," John mumbled once they were in their flat, his eyes closing momentarily.

Sherlock peeled away his jacket and threw his arm around the doctor, helping him ascend another flight of stairs to reach his bedroom. Once they were inside, John flopped on the bed and hid his face in the pillow while Sherlock took off his shoes and socks, and flipped the doctor over to unbutton and take off his shirt, leaving him in a thin vest. Finally, cracking the window open slightly, Sherlock turned off the lights and left the room.


End file.
